The long Goodbye
by ShazzyZhang
Summary: Connor-centric. He was a man, after all. He had needs. And he needed to say goodbye. Starts just before the Yakavetta trial and leads up to movie 2. M for sexual situations & context
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Because I can. More smut. Boondock Saints. Why not? I blame Shipperwolf, seriously. I'm only using Blaise as Connor's love interest (see: Liturgy) because I am too lazy to create someone new. This theoretically takes place between movies 1 &2 and has nothing to do with Liturgy, aside from the characters being the same. Also, every time I go to write "Muprhy" I almost write "Daryl" instead. That's never a good thing._

_Connor and Murphy belong to Troy Duffy and Miramax I guess._

_Slainté_

_-Shazzy_

* * *

><p><strong>The Long Goodbye<strong>

The knock on the door wasn't unexpected. Blaise crossed the living room slowly, engrossed in the book she was reading. She turned the page as she made her way to the door, her bare feet slipped across the hardwood floor as she walked. Finally, she set the book aside on the table that held her mail to open the heavy door to her house.

Leaning against the door frame and smoking, was Connor MacManus. He was dressed in his usual black T shirt, faded, torn jeans and his thick woollen pea coat. His dirty blonde hair stuck up almost straight and his eyes were hidden behind his dark sunglasses. It was a sight she'd seen a hundred times before, but somehow, this time it was different.

They stood there together, quietly as Connor finished his cigarette. She hated it, but never said anything about it. Simple pleasures, really. He never complained when she'd ignore him for hours because of a book, or when she'd stay up for three days because of a caffeine high and a deadline, so it seemed only fair.

She was Irish, a writer and the daughter of a cop who had been killed by mobsters a few years earlier. She'd inherited the family house in Boston, a little pseudo-Victorian thing tucked away from the main drags of the city. She was shorter than Connor, and curvy, but thin enough from running and martial arts. Her Da' had insisted that she learn how to defend herself. Today, she was dressed in a bright blue and pale yellow plaid sundress that accentuated her chest and flared out at the bottom, and her deep chocolate-and-auburn hair was tied back in a messy ponytail.

It was late spring in South Boston. Saint Patrick's Day was a memory now, and the greens on the trees were in full swing. The weather had been remarkably nice, above seasonal and the sunset glowed orange on the horizon. They stared at the beauty of it all, comfortable in their silence.

"Y' comin' inside?" Blaise asked finally, as Connor tossed aside the butt of his smoke and took off his sunglasses.

"Yeah." He replied, looking at her for the first time since she'd opened the door. He looked tired, more tired than usual, and something about him said that there was trouble.

"Where's Murphy?" Blaise asked. It was unusual for Connor to show up on her front step without his brother, even when they were planning to go out on their own.

"Hotel." Connor said slowly as he stepped into the house. He took off his trusty work boots and hung up his coat, revealing the Celtic cross tattoo that Blaise had loved so much. He ran a hand over his mouth and the stubble on his chin as Blaise closed the door behind them. The familiar sound of the lock sliding into place made him feel only slightly better.

"Murph have a girl now?" Blaise asked lightly, slipping past Connor to move nimbly into the kitchen. "Y' wanna drink?"

"Not as such." Connor replied slowly, his brain too preoccupied with other things to be totally involved with the conversation. "And no, thanks."

Blaise closed the refrigerator door and walked up to Connor, who was standing in the middle of the living room. She got right up close, one hand on her hip, narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger.

"Connor MacManus, the day you refuse a drink is the day that my Da' comes back from the grave." She accused. "An' I ain't prepared fer th' comin' zombie apocalypse so you'd better 'splain yerself afore I toss yer sorry arse back out on the street."

Connor smiled his roguish smile and took her hand in his. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

Blaise pouted. "You're not getting out of it tha' easy." She looked him over, frowning. "What...?"

Connor pressed his finger to his own lips. "Can't talk about it." He replied.

"Connor, this isn't a fuckin' _Fight Club_." Blaise snapped.

"I know." Connor replied, genuinely upset. "Believe me, I know. I just..." He frowned, trying to think of how to explain it without explaining. "Things have gotten... _complicated_." He said simply. "A lot has happened in the last few days, more than you'd be willin' to put up with, I think."

Blaise folded her arms across her chest. "Connor, I have known you an' yer brother for more than ten years. We used ta' drink together. We played pool an' darts. My father _adored _you. Swore that he'd look out for you and never let up about it. You held my hand at my Da's funeral and let me cry for a week without judgement. You offered to kill the man responsible for my father's death at least three times and I've turned you and Murphy down all three times. I've fed you, harboured you, hidden you, helped you..." She sighed. "I thought that by now you might trust me enough to tell me whatever it is on your mind."

Connor bit his lower lip, knowing that she wouldn't judge him, knowing that she was on their side and that she wasn't going to be the one to run to the cops tattling on them.

"You've gone and done something rather stupid, haven't ye?" She asked.

"Not as such." Connor replied with a shrug. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty y'know."

A small smile touched her lips. "And Murph is okay?" She asked.

"Nothing that he won't get over." Connor replied.

"It's been six months since the Yakavetta thing and Roc's death, Conn." Blaise said slowly. "You can tell me whatever it is y' boys are plannin'."

Connor pulled her close. "One last job." He said finally.

"Forever last?" Blaise asked, resting her head against his chest. "Or last in the city?"

Connor made a non-committal noise for his answer.

"Who?" Blaise asked finally, her head still resting against his chest.

"Someone very bad." Connor replied, running his fingers through her hair, despite the ponytail.

Annoyed with his touch, Blaise pulled the thin elastic out of her hair, letting her messy, layered locks fall about her face and shoulders. Deftly, she slipped the elastic over her wrist.

Connor smirked and turned her face up to his. "You've got no idea how much I missed you."

Blaise smiled as their lips met. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him passionately. Playfully, she moved her hand to his belt, hooking her fingers around the worn black leather as she dragged him towards the stairs.

Part of Connor wanted to fight it, after all, there was a perfectly good couch right there in living room, but he decided against it. He followed as she dragged him along, laughing as he tripped on the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, he grabbed her, pulling her close kissing her again. He lifted her easily and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the wall.

She pulled his shirt over his head and hesitated for a moment when she saw the new scars. She was used to seeing injuries on her boys, she'd stitched up her fair share of them, but these were different. One in his shoulder and one on his arm, angry, puckered scars. Bullet wounds that had been cauterized roughly and not stitched. A shadow crossed her face, but she didn't say anything. She leaned forward and pressed her lips gently against the healed wounds before trailing her kisses up against his neck.

Connor ran his hands up her legs, slipping her underwear off and dropping them to the floor. She'd unhooked his belt with the practised ease of someone who'd been naughty in a past life. Blaise slipped her dress over her own head, tossing it to the floor as well.

Connor pressed one hand against the wall as he moved against her. She gasped, arching her back as she felt him inside. He kissed her neck and chest, biting at her collar bone as me moved harder against her. She bucked her hips gently, wrapping her legs tighter around him as he moved.

Knowing the hallway wasn't the ideal place for them to finish, Connor stepped back slightly, untangling himself from the puddle that was his jeans at his ankles.

Blaise's bedroom was at the end of the hallway and, holding her still pressed against him, Connor carried her there. They collapsed diagonally on the queen-sized bed, Connor still on top, to continue their tryst.

Blaise groaned pleasantly beneath her husky laugh and reached up hungrily to kiss his mouth. Connor found his hand tangled in her long hair, the other against her hip as he drove into her.

"Ah... God..." Blaise mumbled, her lips buried against his shoulder. "Conn..."

Connor mumbled something in raspy Russian, earning himself a delighted little trill from Blaise and the comforting pinch of her nails as they bit into his flesh.

She arched her back, writhing beneath him as her breathing grew erratic and heavy. He let fly another string of disjointed Russian, that even to him, sounded wrong with her name thrown in the middle of it. He shivered with pleasure as she moved against him, bringing him to a crashing end.

They lay there, breathing heavily for half a moment. Connor brushed her hair out of her face and leaned forward to kiss her before sitting up. He ran his fingers against the lacy edging of the pale blue bra she was still wearing.

"You left it there." Blaise pointed out with a flushed smirk playing on her lips.

Gently, Connor lifted her and set her properly on the bed, before climbing in next to her and draping the blanket over them both.

"You left cigarettes in the drawer." Blaise offered.

Connor shrugged, not interested. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close and she obliged.

With her head resting against his chest she absently traced her fingers along the perfectly round scars on his wrists. She knew all the stories, and worried about Connor and his brother every time they went out.

"Who is your target this time?" Blaise asked quietly.

"Can we leave it alone?" Connor asked in reply. "I'd rather you remember me like this," he made a vague motion with his hand to indicate the room and his nakedness, "and not like the vigilante angel of death I've become."

Blaise lifted her head. "Are you planning to die?" She asked, narrowing her eyes.

"No." Connor said with a sigh. "But we're planning on running."

Blaise growled and got up, grabbing her dressing gown and storming out of the room.

By the time Connor had followed, picking up his clothing and dressing as he walked down the hall, Blaise was already dressed and sitting on the kitchen counter, drinking a Guinness straight from the bottle.

"Don't be mad, Blaise." Connor said sadly.

"Fuck you." Blaise replied.

"Any time." Connor smirked.

"Where are you going?" Blaise asked, trying not to smile at his stupid joke.

Connor shrugged.

Blaise held up her hand to stop him from answering. "Yeah yeah, I know, you don't wanna tell me. The less I know, the better." She took another sip of her beer. "You know you could hide out here." She offered. "You'd be _safe_ here."

"Can't." Connor replied with a sigh. He leaned against the counter across from her. "Too risky. What if someone recognizes us? What if Duffy or Dolly shows up to check in on you and they know we're here? Or we get pinched walking to the store? No, we need to get out."

Blaise nodded. "I understand." She said with a sigh.

"You're not gonna ask to come with?" Connor asked, surprised that it hadn't been the first question on her lips.

"No." She replied. "I'm too high profile." She shrugged. "Th' only _downside_ to my profession." She stared across the kitchen at him. The little frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth, the scar over his eye, his messy hair. She'd miss it all.

"Do the job." Blaise said after a long moment. "An' don't get killed." She added. "And then, when things settle down a bit, come back to see me."

Connor smiled and crossed the narrow kitchen. He wrapped her in his arms one last time and kissed her.

* * *

><p>The courthouse was buzzing with press and police and onlooking civilians. This was the highest profile case they'd tried in months. The Yakavetta trial. The third time he'd been tried, and there was already speculation that he'd get off Scot-free. Again.<p>

They could hear the fire alarm ringing from outside.

It didn't take Blaise long to find the familiar police presence she knew. Greenly, Dolly and Duffy stood well away from the courthouse, whispering quietly to one another.

All three men stopped when they saw her approaching.

"What're you doing here?" Greenly asked first, being rewarded with a shove from Dolly.

Blaise smiled. She was dressed in a black dress, a proper symbol of mourning. Her hair was braided down her back. She looked the three men over, Greenly was tall, lanky and young. Duffy had greying hair, stubble on his chin and honestly reminded her of what Connor would look like in twenty years. Dolly was a little portly, with long hair slicked back. He wore a driving cap today. All three men were in casual clothes, off-duty cops. All three of them looked like they hadn't slept for a week.

"It's a high-profile case." Blaise replied after a long moment. "And I have a vested interest in the outcome." She added with a shrug. "Christ, boys, but you look exhausted."

She held out her arms and was rewarded with a hug, first from Duffy, then Dolly.

"You really shouldn't be here." Dolly told her.

"When have I ever listened?" Blaise drawled. She cast a look around. "The boys inside?" She whispered.

Dolly nodded, almost imperceptibly. "They told you?" He asked, disbelief in his voice.

"No." Blaise replied, the tiniest of smiles touching her lips as she recalled the events of the previous night. "But I'm not as daft as they seem to think. Being told there's a job and the date on the calendar was enough."

Duffy shook his head. "I still don't like it."

"Y' ain't gonna turn 'em in?" Blaise asked.

"Fuck no." Greenly chimed in. "Right?"

Dolly and Duffy chuckled and nodded their agreement.

"Cool." Blaise said. She patted Duffy, who was standing closest to her, on the arm affectionately. "See you boys later." She added, walking slowly away.

The press was in a frenzy by the doors as screaming civilians rushed out of the courthouse.

* * *

><p>They'd slipped out the back, through the staff entrance and were rushing as fast as they could away from the courthouse. They planned to get in a car a few blocks away, to avoid suspicion. The cops would be swarming through the building at the moment, hoping to catch these <em>murderers<em>.

Connor's throat was stinging and raw from his yelled speech inside. He said nothing as they ran. Murphy was beside him, chewing his thumb in nervousness every time they had to stop to make sure their escape route was clear.

Connor was lost in his own thoughts, worry and doubt filling his mind.

It wasn't until he heard his brother curse quietly and nudge his arm that he looked up and reality came rushing back.

Blaise was waiting across the street, plain as day. She smiled, despite the tears in her eyes and held up a hand.

Murphy waved his goodbye.

Connor blew her a kiss.


	2. Ireland

_AN: Had to continue it. Don't know why. It felt right, somehow. No smut in this chapter, but Ireland will get another chapter, don't worry. Thanks to all of you for your support. I honestly didn't think that this one would ever be more than a one-shot. And I honestly didn't think that it would work even on it's own merit. _

_Slainté._

**Ireland...**

It hadn't been six months from the Yakavetta trial and her life had gotten back to relative normal. She'd finished a book and was sitting on her hands waiting for it to be published. She'd kept herself busy doing press junkets and talk show interviews. She was working round the clock to get everything in order for the upcoming book tour. She'd given up sleep in exchange for caffeine.

She'd taken up smoking and subsequently quit, just for something to do.

And then, one day, she'd gotten a letter.

It was vague at best, but it was written in his handwriting.

She was on a plane before the mail was delivered the next morning.

Ireland was green and grey, just like she'd remembered. The city hummed with it's own sort of life. Tourist season was dying down and she had no problem checking into the hotel she'd sought out. It was autumn then, and the rain was almost constant.

She huddled miserably in her hotel room. She'd forgotten about the chill and the damp. Not that Boston was much better, but it seemed that she was in a strange place, a strange land where she was not wholly welcome.

She re-read the letter wistfully, unable to reply.

"_Made it home. You'd hate it here, so rustic, no phone, no television. But the view is to die for. We're fine, no need to worry. But I miss you. Passing through, and Dublin is lovely this time of year, The Morgan is totally your kind of place, expensive and luxurious in all the worst ways. 315, dear. We'll see you soon."_

"Y' bastard." She muttered to herself, folding the letter and putting it back in her sweater pocket. She was sitting on the window sill and staring out over the city streets below.

The letter was right, the Morgan hotel was all luxury and shiny elegance, but she hated it. She'd rather be unplugged, hiding with her boys somewhere on the water. Even the enormous bathtub with the claw feet didn't make her feel any better. And she'd had three baths in the two days she'd been staying in the hotel. 

She peered around the room. She'd gotten room 315. The weird letter Connor had sent her had led her to Dublin, at the Morgan hotel in room 315. The floors were a gross burgundy and the walls were white. Everything was white and black with the wine-coloured carpets. She missed her house in Boston. She knew she'd be going on a book tour and would see her fair share of hotels in the next little while, and she had wanted to stay home and prepare herself for it.

But the letter, weird as it was, could not be ignored.

And now she was here. Home in Ireland and yet, feeling a total stranger. She sighed and looked at the small desk where her laptop and cell phone were placed carefully. She told herself that she was going to work. That she'd stay in touch with her publicist while she was away, even though she was told to take the vacation and rest up.

Blaise had laughed at the thought. If Connor was around, resting would be the _last_ thing on their minds.

She pulled her brown and red hair back into a ponytail and wrapped the thin elastic she always wore on her wrist around it. She watched the tiny people below her scurrying about their business. She felt somehow naked and exposed there, faceless and anonymous in the city she'd left when she was a child.

The courtesy phone suddenly rang, pulling her from her miserable thoughts with a start. Quietly, she got up, crossed the room, dragging her bare feet across the floor to answer it on the third ring.

"O'Malley." She said into the receiver in her most official voice. She called it her 'cop voice' and she'd picked it up from her father, and from hanging out with police officers in Boston.

"There's a visitor here for you." The receptionist said. "What would you like me to do?"

Blaise's heart skipped a beat. "Send them up." She replied as calmly as she could.

"Very well."

Blaise hung up the phone and spun around to stare at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible. She hadn't really slept, no makeup, hair in a ponytail and wearing a black wraparound, robe-like knitted sweater, a coral tank top and a pair of jeans. They were her comfy, writing clothes, she had no reason to be dressed up.

"Fuck it." She decided with a shrug. In almost six months it didn't really matter what she looked like, did it? She weighed the choice and changed her mind. She let her hair down and ran her fingers through it, and she quickly switched her top into a more professional-looking royal purple buttoned blouse.

"Good enough." She said, eyeing herself in the mirror again as a brisk knock on her door signalled the arrival of her visitor.

Taking a moment to compose herself – she was suddenly nervous – she told herself that nothing had changed, not really. She crossed the room to the door and peered through the peephole.

There was a bellhop standing outside her door. Of course they wouldn't send an unexpected guest up by themselves! She pulled open the door.

"Hi?" Blaise asked.

"Sorry to bother you, miss." The Bellhop crooned. He was young, Blaise noted. But professional. "Your guest."

Blaise stared for half a moment. "Yes, thank you." She said with a smile. "I've been expecting you." She added as she stepped aside to allow her visitor to enter the room. She slipped the Bellhop a £50 note. The Bellhop nodded and left as quickly as he'd arrived.

Blaise closed the door and pressed her back against it.

He was wearing that damn pea coat. She let her eyes flash to his hand, spotting the familiar tattoo and her heart fluttered. Six months wasn't a terribly long time, but he looked older. His hair had grown out, enough to make it fall around his face in wavy locks. He still had the same not-quite-five o'clock shadow, but she assumed he'd shaved recently. She stared up into the familiar blue eyes, noting the scar still there, and a thousand questions crossed her mind, though not a single one of them made it to her lips.

"You took your time." She offered weakly.

He arched an eyebrow in response. "I didnae t'ink you'd actually come." He said after a long moment. He looked her over, openly. "You look fantastic."

Blaise smirked, noticing his accent had gotten thicker. "You prob'bly say tha' ta all the girls."

Connor frowned, tilting his head in thought. "No." He said. "Just one."

"You picked the ugliest hotel in the whole city." Blaise accused, trying not to let the warm flush that was creeping up her neck find her face. He made her feel like a schoolgirl.

Connor shrugged.

Things had gotten so _awkward_.

"I missed you." Connor offered.

"I wrote a book." Blaise countered.

"Y' kill anyone?"

Blaise shrugged. "In the book or in real-life?" She bit her lip. "Where's Murph?"

"Hiding." Connor replied. "I'm alone."

Blaise breathed a sigh of relief and flung herself into his arms. They kissed, all the tension, all the awkwardness gone instantly as their lips met.

"Fuck." Connor breathed. "You've no idea how much -"

"Don't say it." Blaise said with a smirk, unbuttoning the pea coat. It was damp and smelled of rain and outdoors. She rose on her toes to kiss him again as her fingers moved against the buttons and the edge of the coat. "So you're farming now are ye?" She asked.

"Don't Sherlock me." Connor begged, shrugging out of the coat and letting her drop it to the floor.

Blaise smiled. "Okay." She promised. She ran her fingers through his messy, tangled hair. "I don't like the long hair." She said, twirling it around her finger. "Y' get lazy?"

"Summin' like that." Connor replied, placing his hand against her cheek. He ran his thumb across her face. "You haven't changed." He told her.

She smiled and stared up at him. "I got violent." She countered. "An' a tattoo." She added, pulling up her sleeve to reveal the knotted Celtic wolf on the inside of her forearm.

Connor chuckled and kissed her again, pulling her close.

She could feel his need for her, his lust for her coming off him in waves. It was palpable (in more ways than one) and she wanted sorely to give in. But she pushed him away wordlessly.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, hurt and confusion crossing his face. "Is there someone else?" He asked immediately. He wouldn't be mad if there was, he had left her after all. Part of him had expected it.

"Yes, Conn." Blaise replied. "I'm seeing Duffy behind your back." Her words dripped with sarcasm as she leaned against the wall.

"Hope he's good lay then." Connor replied with a smirk.

Blaise wrinkled her nose at the thought. Detective Duffy was handsome, but he was more like a brother to her than a potential mate.

"What's on your mind?" Connor asked quietly, leaning forward. Things weren't right between them, and he wanted to know why, aside from the obvious.

Blaise shook her head. "I just..." She bit her lip and frowned. "It's not th' same without you." She said. "Everything's gone funny. Th' boys, the pub... The _cops_." She turned her eyes away. "I'm not the same."

Connor stared at her, running his hand through his hair to brush it out of his eyes. "What do you want me to do?" He asked. "I can't come back. An' I can't leave Murph."

Blaise snorted a laugh. "No, y' can't can ye'?" She looked at him longingly.

"You've got a book thing." Connor reminded her. "Besides, I can't keep you 'ere." He grimaced as he looked around. "An' I can't take y' home."

"Let's run away then." She suggested weakly. "Leave it all. I have enough to live on. We can go... somewhere. France? We can live in Paris. No one would know us there."

Connor stared at her. What did want him to say? Yes? Yes was out of the question. But seeing her there, desperate and lonely, he sorely wanted to take her up on it.

His silence was all the answer she needed. She sank to the floor, pulling her knees up against her chest as she did. She felt weak and stupid. This wasn't her. This wasn't who she was. She'd never let anyone else monopolize her feelings like he had. The _bastard_.

"You made me love you." She accused quietly, resting her forehead against her knees. "And I have always known it would be a bad idea."

He crossed the room and lowered himself to the ground next to her. He wrapped his arms about her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

"I'm sorry." Connor offered quietly, as if the simple words would make it better.

Blaise's shoulders shook with quiet laughter, she refused to spend any more tears on Connor MacManus. "Don't be." She mumbled. "It's been th' best time of m' life."

Connor smiled. He would do anything for her, and France was sounding better by the minute.

"I can relocate here." She mumbled after a minute. "I'll get a place, spend some time here ev'ry coupla months." She turned her aqua eyes to look at the man next to her. "I'll call it a writing retreat or summin'. My agent will like it if I come back from a visit to the homeland with a book every few months."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Connor asked.

"No." Blaise said with a sigh and without hesitation. "It all puts you in too much risk." She smiled, but there was a touch of sadness to it. "No, I know this is it for us."

The bluntness of her words hit Connor like a sack of bricks. He got very quiet, drawing himself in in introspective silence. He hadn't intended it to go this way. He wanted...

He wasn't sure what, exactly, he wanted. But it involved her. And it involved more than just taking one another's clothes off.

"I'm here for a week." Blaise told him finally, standing slowly. "Let's make the most of it." She held out her hand to help him up.

He took her hand reluctantly, resisting the urge to pull her back to the floor.

They stood there, hand in hand, for a long moment, staring at each other. Nothing was as simple as it should be.


	3. One Week Ireland 2

_AN: As promised, part two of what happened in Ireland. :P I couldn't leave it that sad could I? I'm glad, that you're enjoying this, Flock. You are my inspiration. Also, the hotel I described actually exists and I think it's horribly ugly, although the bathtubs do look pretty awesome._

_Slainté _

_All my love._

_-Shazzy (Murph)_

**One week (Ireland part 2)**

They went out every day. Hand in hand, they would walk through the city streets. No one bothered them. No one stopped them. They were faceless, anonymous in the city. They were just another couple in love and enjoying their time in the city.

She paid for everything and Connor hated it, but she waved him away, making offhand comments about how sheep farming didn't bring enough money in for him to bother with chivalry and making it clear that if she wanted to, she could figure out where he was hiding.

After a few days, Connor stopped asking if she'd let him pay.

They went to the cathedrals, they took a day trip out of Dublin to go see the rest of the sights, they ate at whatever restaurant they fancied at the time and went to the pub together, drinking and chatting up the patrons and going to a different pub every day. It was almost like old times, but there was no Murphy leering over Blaise's shoulder and making snide comments that would send the brothers into a good-natured scrap.

And every night, they returned to the hotel, and to the bed, like newlyweds.

"I'd still marry you." Blaise said quietly one night, drawing the blankets up over herself as Connor lit a cigarette.

"Would y' now?" Connor asked, leaning back against the pillows and the headboard, watching the pale smoke trail up to the ceiling.

Blaise shrugged. "Seems like th' thing ta do."

Connor smirked – the thought was like trading one sin for another.

"Offer stands." Blaise said quietly, running her hand through her hair.

"I'll remember." Connor replied.

The week passed too quickly for Connor's liking. He wanted it to be longer. He seriously considered taking her up on her offer to migrate to Ireland, hell, he was ready to run off to France. But the conversation of running away together hadn't come back up since she'd told him she'd marry him.

Connor wondered if he hadn't imagined it.

The last day of the week found the couple staying inside. They couldn't bring themselves to get up and go out. Not when they would be saying their goodbyes indefinitely after.

Blaise was like a rabid animal, all teeth and nails.

Connor loved it. He kissed her passionately, groaning when her teeth found his lips. He pressed her harder into the bed, getting rewarded with the sharp prick of her nails against his shoulder. He pulled his lips away from hers and trailed kisses against her neck, whispering sweet nothings in Russian in her ear. She replied in kind with a low moan.

When they were finished, he watched her dress and begin packing her things. She hummed quietly under her breath, a fighting song of some sort that made so little sense to be hummed, but Connor wasn't about to stop her.

Connor pulled on his clothes, half debating on dragging her into the shower before they parted ways. He smirked at the thought.

"Whatever yer thinkin' about, boy, you'd better shake it outta yer head." Blaise warned with a cocky grin, as she realized he was staring at her.

"Jus' trying to decide the next time I'd send for ya'." Connor replied.

"Get tae fuck." Blaise shot back with a smile.

They both knew this was goodbye for real.

"When's your plane?" Connor asked.

"Five." Blaise replied, her voice cracking slightly as she tried not to cry. She cleared her throat delicately, putting on her tough-girl persona. "I'll get ya a cab." She offered.

Connor nodded, frowning.

"I had to ya' know." Connor said finally. "The Yakavetta ting..."

"I don't blame you, love." Blaise replied, hoisting her suitcase and dragging it across the floor. "If anything, I'm more proud a' you boys. I understand why ya' did it. I get it. I'm thankful for it. You put _my_ ghosts to rest." She stomped over to Connor. "What I'm pissed about is that ye did it in _public_ an' then ran away." She kissed his forehead.

Connor shrugged. There was nothing he could say to it. It had been bold and daring and outright stupid, but it was a message, and that message got across.

"Y've done a'right by me." Blaise said with a smile. "Now don' get yerself killed out 'ere." She warned. "I don't wanna hear about yer secret funeral."

Connor nodded. "Yes'm."

They kissed one last time, and went their separate ways.


	4. Eight Years

_AN: So we're coming up to the end of this random smutty little story. I dunno why, but it feels pretty good to write this random thing. Anyway, enjoy. I'll try not to make it so sad this time. Don't bother trying to translate the Russian gibberish Connor is saying. I wrote it phonetically. If you really must know, send me a PM and I'll tell you, but it's really not that interesting. Also, who has been getting all the references I keep throwing into these things? There's a lot of 'em in my Saints stories, references to pop culture, to the actors, there's reasons behind EVERYTHING I write. Did you get 'em all, Flock?_

_Slainté_

_-Shazzy_

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><p><em>All of my dreams<br>Seem to fall by the side  
>Like a discarded thought<br>Or the day's fading light  
>But I know that if I could just<br>See you tonight  
>Forever!<em>

At times we may fall,  
>Like we all tend to do<br>But I'll reach out and find  
>That I've run into you<br>your strength is the power  
>That carried me through<br>Forever!

_**-Forever, by The Dropkick Murphys**_

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><p><strong>Eight Years<strong>

The house was still there, pristine as ever. The mahogany and chocolate stains gleamed in the sun. The trees stood their silent vigil over the house, seemingly taller than the last time he had been there. Connor stood on the edge of the block, across the street, staring and smoking quietly. He couldn't make up his mind. He knew that they had a job to do. They'd been called back. He couldn't ignore that calling, but could he ignore her?

Murphy had told him he was insane. Tried to talk him out of it, telling his brother that the woman had probably moved on, grown up, gotten married and had kids by now. He even went so far as to insinuate that she'd fallen in love with either Greenly or Duffy, seeing as they were the only other men in her life. It had started one of the many fights they'd had on the ship ride over. Connor refused to believe that she'd have moved on like that. But Murphy had managed to put that doubt firmly in his mind.

They hadn't spoken. He had written her letters but never sent them. He regretted not taking her up on her offer to run away with him. He wondered if things would be different if he had. He stared at her yard, no signs of children. He supposed that was a good sign.

He caught a twitch of the curtain in the upper window – her window – and he wondered if she'd seen him. He took a breath and walked across the street, bold as brass, and up the familiar front steps. He rang the bell and waited.

The heavy door opened slowly.

His breath caught in his throat as she appeared in the doorway.

She was just as he remembered her, except her hair was cut short, her asymmetrical bangs were the fire engine red she favoured and the rest was a blue-black. It made her skin look more pale and brought out her eyes. The familiar scar under her eye had faded, he noticed. She was wearing a kilt and a baggy _Dropkick Murphys_ T shirt, barefoot despite the autumn chill in the air. Connor vaguely wondered if she wore her kilt the way that Scottish men did.

"Connor MacManus." Blaise breathed. "I always knew one day you'd come walking back through my door. I just knew it."

A flicker of recognition crossed Connor's face and he took a small step back. "Quoting _Indiana Jones_ now?" He smiled. "Please don't hit me."

"Come inside." Blaise said, standing aside so he could enter her house.

Connor did as he was bid without hesitation. The house looked the same as he remembered it. The pictures on the wall were different, but otherwise it was the same.

The lock slid, making it's familiar noise and Connor's heart pounded. He was home. He took off his pea coat, draping it over his arm.

"You're still wearin' the same damn jacket." Blaise pointed out with a smirk as she leaned against the wall on one shoulder. "Y' haven't changed."

"I like the hair." Connor said with a small smile.

Blaise ran her hand through it with a smile in return. "Got bored." She shrugged. She held out her hand to take the 'damn jacket' from Connor. He handed it over and she hung it up in the front closet as he took off his boots. Her house was the only place he'd ever felt comfortable walking around barefoot.

Connor stepped further into the house and looked around. "You look well." He said, absently, not entirely paying attention to the conversation.

"What _are_ you looking for?" Blaise asked, folding her arms across her chest and following the Saint into her living room.

"Kids." Connor replied.

Blaise laughed. "There's only been one man in my life who I would _ever_ even _consider_ having kids with, and he's not exactly the most reliable of men, considering tha' he's a wanted criminal."

Connor arched an eyebrow quizzically and pointed to himself.

"No, Conn." Blaise snapped. "I was talkin' about yer brother." She rolled her eyes. "So much cuter than you." She teased. "Bit more of a realist, tha' Murphy." A smile touched her lips and she uncrossed her arms. "But you're here, not him. An' for that, I am thankful." She tilted her head slightly, giving Connor a sideways glance. "So what has brought you back into my neck o' the woods?"

Connor set his jaw and didn't answer.

"Ah." Blaise said knowingly. "There's a job." She frowned. "The priest?" She asked when Connor didn't answer. She took in his reaction before continuing. "Don't look so shocked, boyo. It's all over th' news." She pursed her lips. "An' you're going after the little Yakavetta, yeah?"

"Have y' seen the boys?" Connor asked, trying to hide his true shock, despite it being written plain on his face.

"Y' mean the Detectives?" Blaise replied. "Not recently. Spoke wi' Duffy a few days ago, but they're still on your side, if tha's what you're after."

Connor nodded. "It's going to get messy again." He warned.

Blaise shrugged. "It always is when you're in town."

Connor smiled. He let his eyes wander over Blaise, she looked the same, eight years hadn't changed her much, aside from the hair. He noticed, happily, there was no ring on her wedding finger.

"You know Smecker's dead, yeah?" Blaise asked further, walking into the kitchen and magically producing two beers from the fridge. "An' the boys are panicking over what that means."

Connor took the beer and frowned, lowering himself into the kitchen table chair in shock. "No, I hadn't heard."

Blaise shrugged. "Duffy's got a good head on 'is shoulders at least." She took a sip of her beer. "They're still terrified of what's gonna happen to them if they... y'know."

"Shit." Connor hissed.

Blaise held out her hands in a gesture of no contest. She slid into a chair on the long side of the table. "They'll be fine, as long as they don't lose it." She smirked. "Not like that's very likely to happen – them keeping cool heads, I mean. But you should know that Greenbeans is all grown up."

Connor snorted a laugh. "He'll ne'er grow up."

Blaise smiled and sipped her beer quietly. "Little Yakavetta's been running the town like 'is ol' man. Cops can't pin him down, jury can't make anyt'ing stick. Been dark times 'round 'ere." She sighed. "Dunno what else t' tell ya'. I've been keepin' my nose clean as best I can, it seems silly for me t' keep on top of all the un'erworld stuff if y' ain't around to ask for information."

"I read your last book." Connor said, changing the subject. "I've read all of 'em, actually."

"Oh." Blaise murmured with a grin. "Wouldnae have pegged you for a fan o' mine. You coulda written me, I'd have sent you copies o' all of 'em." Her grin got wider as she continued. "You wanna autograph?"

"Ha, yeah, no." Connor replied easily. "Besides, I couldn't have let you know where we were hiding."

Blaise gave him a flat stare. "Sheep farm." She sneered, a very Murphy-like reply. "On the edge o' th' damn island. Prob'bly outside 'a Cork."

"If I tell you anything more about out hideout, I'll have to kill you." Connor warned with a small smile.

"As long as y' do it properly," she tapped the back of her head, "I won't beg for my life." Blaise replied, holding her beer out to clink gently against his.

Eight years hadn't changed a _thing_ between them. It was strangely comforting. And a little unnerving.

"How long are you planning to stay this time?" Blaise asked.

"Not long." Connor replied slowly, setting aside his half-empty drink. "Just enough to do this job, I think."

Blaise nodded in understanding.

"Y' haven't been waiting for me all this time, 'ave you?" Connor asked bluntly.

Blaise laughed. "Not in the least." She replied. "But I'm single, if that's what you mean. There's no one else for me, Connor." She smiled faintly. "I've no interest in anyone. They're all so _boring_."

"That's no good." Connor replied.

"Darlin', if I was unhappy, don'cha think I'd have done somethin' ta' make myself happy?" Blaise shot back. "No matter what, I'm yours. _I'll go down with this ship_."

Connor shook his head. "You are one helluva girl."

"Damn right I am." Blaise replied.

"Now, darling Connor," she continued, waiting for a half moment as Connor picked up his drink again. "Are you just gonna sit here and pump me for information all night, or are you gonna pump somethin' else?"

Connor choked and spluttered, desperately trying not to spit the mouthful of beer he'd taken all over the table. He covered his mouth, coughing violently.

"Christ, Conn, you'd think you were a blushin' virgin the way you carry on." Blaise teased with a laugh.

"You are a horrible painted Jezebel." Connor choked, pointing accusingly at her and laughing between the coughs and gasps for breath. "I love you for it."

"You love me for a lot of things." Blaise countered smugly. "My skewed sense of humour barely even plays into it."

Connor shook his head. "No, I mean it." He told her. "I love you."

They stared across the table at each other for a long, silent moment.

"Took you more'n eight years t' say it." Blaise pointed out.

"I am a stupid, weak man." Connor replied.

"I'm not gonna argue that point." Blaise replied.

Connor nodded, a smile still hanging on to the corners of his lips.

"So where does this leave us?" Blaise asked quietly.

"I don't know." Connor admitted. "Things are going to get brutal. You might wanna lay low for a few days." He shrugged. "I can't promise anything."

"That isn't what I meant." Blaise informed him bluntly. "You and me. Fuck ev'rything else." She pushed herself away from the table and stood, crossing her arms and turning away from him. "Eight years is a long damn time, Conn."

Connor bit the inside of his lip, not sure what to say.

"I just want to know what it is I'm waiting for." Blaise said finally.

Connor stood then and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He leaned his head in close to her ear.

"Me." He said quietly. "An' that's all I can gi'e you."

Blaise tilted her head and frowned. "Promise me that you won't get killed?" She asked.

Connor kissed her neck. "Not yet." He promised.

Blaise huffed a sigh. "You're such a _bastard_."

"I know." Connor said into the flesh of her neck. "But that's why you love me."

Blaise smirked. "At least you know it's got nary a thing ta' do wit' th' size o' yer cock."

"Now that's just uncalled for." Connor replied lightly.

He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her from the floor. Blaise fought back halfheartedly and let a small, playful scream leave her lips.

Connor carried her into the living room as she flailed her legs uselessly, trying to kick him and laughing all the while. She managed to get a foot on the floor firmly enough to shift her weight and send them both tumbling onto the leather sofa.

Blaise was on top. She turned herself around so she was straddling Connor and she leaned forward to kiss him.

"Any new scars I should know about?" She asked jokingly as she pulled Connor's shirt over his head.

"Naw." Connor replied. "Sheep ain't all that vicious."

She poked him in the chest. "Fuckin' _knew it_."

Connor grinned. "Y' dressin' like a Scotsman now?" He asked. "Maybe I _oughta_ take y' back wit' me."

Blaise stuck her tongue out. "Bite me." She said.

Connor did as he was told, teeth finding the flesh of her shoulder through her top.

Blaise laughed and shoved him back against the couch. She pressed her lips against his as she unbuckled his belt. He slipped his hands up under her kilt, and had to bite back his laughter when he discovered she _was_ dressed like a Scotsman.

Blaise guided him gently into her, circling her hips against his as he watched her. His face was unreadable as she moved with deft confidence. He reached up to her face, pulling her close to kiss as she continued to move against him, picking up her pace as they kissed.

"_Trudnyee._" Connor mumbled when she pulled her lips away long enough to let him.

A lustful smile crept across Blaise's face, she knew what that word meant. The Russian word uttered so needfully, a request, not a command. She obliged and rocked herself harder against him as his fingers dug into her hip. She arched her back, leaning forward against his chest, trailing kisses against his collarbone the way he normally did to her.

She smiled as he let out a little groan under his breath. It had been far too long, and she wondered if he'd run out of stamina before she did.

"Oh..." Connor growled, pulling her down against him. "_Bozhe, da_."

Blaise shifted, earning another groan from Connor. He knew she liked the sound of Russian on his tongue and he used it to get what he wanted. He could have been telling her how to bake a cake and she'd have melted in his arms.

She was enjoying herself, teasing and biting and writhing against him. She knew _exactly_ where to touch, where to kiss, where to bite to make the low moans and whispered Russian words tumble from Connor's lips. And she used her position to make the most of it.

"_Yebat' da_... Blaise..." Connor groaned again. "_Bol'she_..."

Blaise leaned in to kiss him passionately as he moved against her. She moaned gently against his lips as she rocked her hips harder against him.

"_O, Bozhe da... Da... Ya lyublyu tebya._" Connor hissed.

Blaise felt his energy dissipate beneath her as her climax brought him to his.

She breathed heavily, her chest heaving and he pulled her down to lay against his chest.

Eight years had passed and nothing had changed.

"_YA samyi schastilvyi chelovek na svete._" Connor whispered. "_YA lyublyu tebya_."

Blaise thought about that statement for a long moment, trying to piece it together, with no luck. Her Russian etymology was not as good as she'd told herself it was. She let it go and kissed Connor gently, spurring him neatly on to a second round.

Eventually, they got up from their place on the sofa. There was still a job to do.

Blaise excused herself for a moment and Connor took the chance to scribble a note for her. He went to his jacket in the hall and grabbed something from the pocket, along with his cigarettes.

When Blaise returned, she was holding a small cloth. She held it out to Connor. "For luck." She told him.

Connor nodded and tucked the cloth in his pocket. He knew what it was without looking.

They stared each other down for a long moment.

"I'll come back." Connor promised.

"I'll be here t' stitch you up." Blaise replied. "I'm glad you cut your hair." She added.

Connor laughed and kissed her on the mouth. "I'm kinda regretting it, t' be honest."

Blaise smirked. "You could dye it?" She suggested.

Connor narrowed his eyes. "No." He replied simply, slipping the cigarette he'd taken from his coat between his lips.

"Good luck." Blaise said.

"Thanks." Connor replied as he slipped his boots and coat back on.

They kissed passionately one last time before Connor let himself out.

Blaise locked the door behind him and sighed. The small table where she kept her mail caught her eye. There was a pile of worn envelopes that hadn't been there before, with a note and a gleaming silver object on top.

She picked up the stack of letters, the note and the silver thing and stared in disbelief.

The silver was a Claddagh ring.

She bit her lip and tried not to cry as she slipped it on her left ring finger, pointing the bottom of the heart towards herself, symbolizing she was taken. She thumbed through the letters, all addressed to her but no postage and no return address. She knew he'd written them in the eight years he'd been in hiding.

The note on top, however, made her smile. It was written phonetically in Russian with the English translation underneath.

"_Ya samyi schastlivyo chelovek na svete. Nikogda ne ostavit menya, Blaise. YA lyublyu tebya._"

"I am the luckiest man alive. Don't ever leave me, Blaise. I love you."

"Ye bastard." Blaise mumbled, staring at the door with a smile on her face and her Claddagh gleaming against her pale finger.

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><p><em>The end?<em>


End file.
